Clack-clack. Clack-clack.

Brea gasped, sucking in a massive lungful of cold, stale air. Her eyes snapped open.

Her palms met the rough, intact denim of cheap jeans.Her breathing hitched. She turned her head.

The reflection in the grimy train window stared back at her. It was her own face, unburned, dirt-smudged, and exactly eighteen years old.

She pressed her hand flat against her chest. Her heart hammered against her ribs, strong and steady.

The memory of the warehouse fire collided violently with the sight of the worn-out train cabin.

She looked down. A faded canvas duffel bag sat by her worn sneakers.

The realization hit her like a physical blow to the gut. She was back. This was the night train to New York. The exact day the Sinclair family had brought her back from the Rust Belt.

It was also the exact day they had hired dark web contractors to stage an "accident" before she ever reached the city.

A heavy metallic clank echoed from the connection space between the train cars.

Brea's muscles locked. She sprang up from the cracked vinyl seat, grabbed the canvas bag, and slung the strap over her shoulder.

She peeked through the frosted glass panel.

Two men in worn denim jackets and dark baseball caps stood in the aisle of the next car, appearing at first glance like ordinary late-night travelers. However, Brea's hardened instincts immediately caught the unnatural rigidity in their posture and the heavy, unmistakable bulge of concealed firearms hidden beneath their casual coats.

One of them held up a printed photograph, discreetly comparing it to the sleeping passengers in the seats.

The man suddenly snapped his head up, his gaze locking directly onto the glass door where Brea stood.

Brea spun around and broke into a dead sprint toward the opposite end of the car.The old train violently lurched on the uneven tracks. Brea lost her footing. Her body pitched hard to the right.

Her right shin smashed brutally against the sharp metal edge of an exposed luggage rack. A sickening tear of pain shot from her bone straight up to her spine.

She bit down hard on her lower lip, swallowing the scream that tried to claw its way out of her throat. The taste of copper flooded her mouth.

Sweat beaded on her forehead. She gripped the back of a passenger seat and forced herself to stand, her right leg trembling violently.

The electronic chime of the automatic sliding door sounded behind her. Heavy, urgent combat boots pounded against the floorboards of her car.

Brea dragged her bleeding leg forward. She shoved her way through the narrow corridor leading into the first-class VIP section.

At the very end of the plush hallway, a heavy walnut door stood slightly ajar.

She threw her entire body weight against the wood, tumbling into the dark room. She twisted around on the floor, kicked the door shut, and slammed the palm of her hand against the brass deadbolt.

Click.

She slumped against the cold wood of the door, her chest heaving as she dragged in ragged breaths.

Then she heard it. A harsh, irregular sound cutting through the silence. Someone struggling to breathe.

Her eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness.

A massive silhouette was curled up on the leather sofa in the corner of the room.

The man had his hands buried in his hair, gripping the strands as if trying to tear them from his scalp.

A low, guttural growl ripped from his throat. It sounded like a wounded, cornered animal.

Brea pressed her spine flat against the door, assessing the threat.

The low growling stopped abruptly. The man snapped his head up, staring directly into the shadows where she stood.

Before she could blink, he launched himself off the sofa with terrifying explosive power.

A large hand gripped her firmly. She was lifted slightly, struggling to breathe.

Her feet left the floor. The air was violently forced out of her lungs.

She clawed frantically at the massive hand crushing her windpipe, her fingertips brushing against the cold, heavy platinum of a bespoke cufflink. The sheer, overwhelming physical power and the faint, expensive scent of cedarwood told her this was no ordinary thug. She struggled to focus through the darkness.

Through the faint sliver of light bleeding in from the hallway, she saw his eyes. They were bloodshot, dilated, and completely unhinged.

As her vision began to blur with black spots, the ambient light briefly caught the sharp, aristocratic angle of his jawline and the ruthlessly cold features.

Her stomach dropped. She finally recognized the face from countless financial magazine covers in her past life. Jaxon Kensington. The tyrant of Wall Street.

The rumors of his severe, violent PTSD flashed through her mind.

Jaxon's fingers tightened. The thick veins on the back of his hand bulged.

Black spots danced at the edges of Brea's vision. The sensation of dying returned, suffocating and absolute.

She knew fighting back would only trigger a deeper violent response from a PTSD patient in a dissociative state.

She stopped kicking. Her arms felt like lead, but she forced them upward.

She opened her palms and gently pressed her warm, soft hands against Jaxon's rigid jawline.

Jaxon's massive frame flinched violently at the sudden, non-aggressive touch.

Brea fought through the crushing pain in her windpipe. She locked her clear, unwavering gaze onto his chaotic eyes.

She parted her lips and made a soft, rhythmic shushing sound.

"I can fix the pain in your head," she forced out in a raspy, barely audible whisper.

Jaxon's heavy, erratic breathing hitched. He froze.

The murderous intent in his eyes fractured. A flicker of confusion broke through the madness.

The iron grip around her throat loosened by a fraction of an inch.

Brea immediately grabbed his wrist, holding it in place as she sucked in a desperate, greedy lungful of air.

Jaxon let go completely. He stumbled backward, as if his strings had been cut.

He collapsed back onto the leather sofa, buried his face in his hands, and began to shake.

Brea slid down the wall. She hit the floor, coughing violently, her hands clutching her bruised neck as she watched the monster in the dark.

Brea leaned her head back against the wall, waiting for the coughing fit to pass.

She looked down at her right leg. The cheap denim was soaked through with dark, wet blood.

On the sofa, Jaxon sat up.